...it's done. Insurance is done! Two years! (And a week.) All the claims and supplementals and lawsuits and lawyers* and how many adjusters?—I lost track, six? eight?—and thirty page claim summaries in eight-point type listing lathe-board and Sheetrock demolition rates calculated by the square foot and broken out by room plus dumpster expenses by the day and of course none of it in any way matches how contractors or any sane human actually tabulates things but you're somehow supposed to make it all line up—it's all done. All the climbing around in the back yard looking for rusty serial numbers on puke-a-licious dead appliances and the mind-numbing spreadsheets cross-referenced by claim number plus cost-of-living and contents and the interminable navigations through Kafka-esque bureaucracies and the fear of financial ruin—it's all done.
The case is closed. The lawyer's paid. And—after much fretting and phoning and hassling—it all seems to have more or less sort of worked out. (Now if we can just get that Road Home nonsense straightened out.) I think it's time for a Sazerac.**
* Yeah, I never mentioned the lawsuit. Be grateful. It was boring.
** And as a side note, the lady and I have been married nine years today. Make that two Sazeracs.